


Just that the Time is Wrong

by EachPeachPearPlum



Series: Little Journey to the Unknown [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Holding Hands, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Self-Acceptance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-03 14:11:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19465636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EachPeachPearPlum/pseuds/EachPeachPearPlum
Summary: Buckymelts, is the only way he can describe it, his insides going all warm and- andgooey, god.He hasn't felt like this in years, not since ’45. Maybe even before that, far enough back that they might as well be writing fairy tales about it; once upon a time, long ago and far away, Bucky Barnes was a man capable of wanting to be with someone.This is the first time since he got his own mind back that Bucky’s thought there might be even a small chance of being that man again.He’s still not sayingyes, even to a kiss, but it's definitely more of anot right nowthan a straight upno.“I love you,” he says, because that warm and gooey feeling needs to come out somehow and words are about all Bucky's got to work with for the moment.Steve keeps on smiling, giving Bucky's hand a solid squeeze before letting him go. “Love you, too, Buck,” he says. “Sleep well.”(Or, alternatively, Bucky and Steve figure out how to make their relationship work)





	Just that the Time is Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> This was initially a short coda for Take My Hand, and then it was a choice of two codas, which grew and grew. It flirted briefly with the possibility of being a 5+1 fic, except one of the 5 decided it wanted to come after the 1, another veered in a very different direction (will eventually be an unrelated one-shot, just because), and a third fizzled itself out of existence between me thinking of it and me getting the opportunity to write it down, at which point I reached the conclusion that the 5+1 format is just not one I can write.
> 
> So, instead of the above, have a far longer than planned sequel.
> 
> Title is borrowed from Dire Strait's Romeo and Juliet ( _And I forget, I forget the movie song. When you gonna realise it was just that the time was wrong_ ) and series title from Lord Huron's Meet Me in the Woods ( _I took a little journey to the unknown, And I come back changed, I can feel it in my bones. I fucked with the forces that our eyes can't see. Now the darkness got a hold on me_ ).
> 
> Peach x
> 
> (Now, the slightly weird part: This fic is officially an offering to Heather, who is the reason my baby bro returned from his final year at university with Cap's shield in his car. If you happen to be the Heather who is friends with Thumbs and asked him to look after it, please can you either a) convince him to give it to me because it's currently sat behind his bedside cabinet _facing the wall where no one can appreciate how awesome it is_ and I have a perfect stretch of wall to hang it on [will offer a fic of your choosing in exchange, if that happens to sweeten the pot any] or b) reclaim it [because if I'm not allowed to klepto it, he shouldn't either])

“No,” Bucky says, the first time Steve smiles and asks permission to kiss him.

It’s been a good day, the quiet kind that doesn’t happen all that often. No calls to Assemble, no mission prep work or urgent meetings, not even any smoke or crashes or weird smells from further down the building (Stark says that the manufacturing floors all have individual, completely isolated air systems, that there's no way odours from elsewhere in the building can possibly be reaching them, but Steve says he can sometimes smell things too and Bucky doesn't think he'd lie just to make him feel better).

Steve wakes him up at the crack of dawn for a jog in the park, Sam wheezing his way after them, and then there’s a mountain of pancakes waiting for them in the team kitchen when they get back, along with coffee from Stark’s crazy complicated machine. A bit of (mostly) friendly competition with Barton in the range, oversized sandwiches and soda for lunch, an afternoon sparring with Natasha and Steve, and then splitting an even larger mountain of takeout and watching absurd movies with the team (and Pepper, Stark’s friend Rhodes, Maria Hill, Thor’s Jane and Jane’s Darcy).

He and Steve share one of the three-person couches, sitting at opposite ends with their hands loosely linked and resting in the empty space between them. Bucky likes holding Steve's hand, likes having Steve’s palm pressed to his, their fingers interlaced, Steve’s grip strong and warm but never so tight that Bucky can't pull away if he needs to.

It's been easy, _calm_ , and maybe that's why Steve asks. Maybe it has him feeling optimistic, like he thinks Bucky’s having a good enough day that he can handle the way Steve walks him to his bedroom door when the last movie ends, smiles, and says, “May I kiss you, Buck?”

He asks it just like that, _may_ instead of _can_ , not conflating the ability to do something with _permission_ to do it the way language so often does these days, and it would be sweet, really, if only Bucky wasn’t too fucked up to appreciate it.

“ _No_ ,” he says, too loud and too sharp, ruining their good day with his knee-jerk, gut-instinct reaction.

That's bad, but the way he flinches immediately afterwards is worse.

It's not because of Steve, of course it isn't. It's just _instinct_ , ugly and unwanted, born from too many years under someone else’s control. They – the general, non-specific _they_ that Bucky uses to refer to Hydra, to the Russians, to any and everyone else who ever had ownership of him – were always happy to cause him pain, never hesitated to brutally punish even the most minor infractions, but they never hurt him as much as when he tried to refuse to do what they wanted.

Steve has proven that he would literally rather die than hurt Bucky, but it takes a moment too long for that knowledge to overcome the sheer terror that fills him in the wake of his refusal, and that moment is all it takes for him to hurt Steve.

Bucky wants to take it back.

Not the refusal, not really; he doesn't want to kiss Steve, not now. Even if he tried to be okay with it, if he was willing to permit it in order to make Steve feel better, Bucky’s certain Steve would consider his first answer more important than his second; he has no doubt at all that Steve would accept it if Bucky said _yes_ and then changed his mind, but there’s no way in hell he’d buy it if Bucky tried to turn a _no_ into a _yes_ , so there's absolutely no point in even thinking about changing that.

But his reaction, his _retreat_ , the thing that has Steve looking at Bucky like he’s just been socked in the stomach – that, Bucky would desperately like the opportunity to do again.

“Steve,” he manages, pushing himself to step forward again and reaching for Steve’s hand. “I didn’t- I’m s-”

But Steve interrupts before he can get the word out, twisting his hand in Bucky’s until they’re holding hands properly rather than just Bucky clinging to Steve.

“You don’t gotta be sorry, Buck,” he says, squeezing just tight enough for the sensors in Bucky’s fingers to register it. “You don’t ever gotta be sorry.”

But he _is_ , can’t not be, and if Steve won’t let him apologise then Bucky is at least going to explain.

“It’s not you,” he tells him, talking to their hands, watching his thumb stroke across Steve's knuckles like it's someone else’s. “I know you’d never hurt me.”

Steve doesn't answer right away, and Bucky doesn't want to look at him. He's pretty sure Steve will be smiling, but it won't be _happy_ , and Bucky hates when Steve smiles but doesn't mean it. Doesn't matter if it's his camera smile, the one he pastes on when they’re ambushed by a news crew after a fight and he's trying to hide the fact that he's injured, or his press conference smile, the one he drags out when a reporter has asked one of the questions Steve has been given a scripted response for. Or, even more awful, the smile where Bucky’s said something he thought was okay and instead it has Steve pretending he doesn't want to cry.

Every single one of Steve’s fake smiles makes Bucky wish he'd never got enough of his memories back to see the difference.

“I know you do, Bucky,” Steve says, and it’s soft and it's lovely, not even a little bit sad, and maybe looking at him isn’t the worst thing Bucky could do. Steve _is_ smiling, like Bucky had expected, but it's _real_ , the _I'm the luckiest person in the world_ smile he saves for when Bucky does something particularly _Bucky_ -ish. “Just like you know I'd prefer it if you said no every day for the rest of our lives than said yes even once when you don't mean it.”

A moment passes, during which Bucky tries to work out what his face is doing and what he _wants_ his face to be doing, and then, sounding far too uncertain, Steve adds, “You do know that, right?”

And Bucky… Bucky _melts_ , is the only way he can describe it, his insides going all warm and- and _gooey_ , fuck.

He hasn't felt like this in years, not since ’45. Maybe even before that, far enough back that they might as well be writing fairy tales about it; once upon a time, long ago and far away, Bucky Barnes was a man capable of wanting to be with someone.

This is the first time since he got his own mind back that Bucky’s thought there might be even a small chance of being that man again.

He’s still not saying _yes_ , even to a kiss, but it's definitely more of a _not right now_ than a straight up _no_.

“I love you,” he says, because that warm and gooey feeling needs to come out somehow and words are about all Bucky's got to work with for the moment. “And, yeah, I do know that.”

Steve keeps on smiling, giving Bucky's hand a solid squeeze before letting him go. “Love you, too, Buck,” he says. “Sleep well.”

Bucky watches as he turns around, away from Bucky’s bedroom and towards his own. It's how most evenings go, one of them heading to his bedroom and the other one watching him go, and Bucky wonders if maybe Steve also wishes they weren't going to separate beds, that they could sleep wrapped up in one another – just sleep, just keeping each other warm and safe – the way they did before. 

Bucky's nightmares and subsequent violent awakenings mean that even just sleep isn’t a good idea, but that also doesn't feel as much like a _never_ as it usually does.

“Steve,” Bucky says, only as loud as he needs to be for Steve to hear him; Steve turns around, and, God, he's _still_ doing his _luckiest person alive_ smile. “Don't quit asking, okay?”

“G’night, Buck,” is all Steve says, but that smile is blooming, blossoming, a full-on lunatic grin painting its way across Steve's face.

Only once they're both behind their separate doors does Bucky raise his hands, pressing warm skin fingertips and room-temperature metal ones to his face, feeling out the edges of a smile almost as big and broad as Steve's grin. It's a surprise and a confirmation all at once, the first time he’s smiled without thinking about it first, without actively choosing to do so; he didn't know his mouth could do that anymore, but he's so glad to find out it can.

It's definitely a good day.

X

“Yes,” Steve says, when Bucky traces the lines of Steve’s face and takes his turn at asking.

It’s been a decent day, the not so quiet kind that happens more often than not these days. The team have a mission, but not a huge, end-of-the-world one, and Bucky spends it sitting at home with JARVIS, Pepper (who still insists she doesn’t have enhancements anymore) and the kids; Wanda says her powers are better saved for the big stuff, when she knows she’ll be doing more good than harm, and Pietro’s attention span means he’s better at the kind of situation that needs him to be everywhere at once rather than focused on a particular area (not that Bucky’s judging; he’s hyper-aware himself, most of the time, and that’s without things moving as slowly as they must do for Pietro). As for himself, Bucky would be perfectly happy to be out there, but apparently an enormous, pink, alien bunny is not the kind of foe that requires the Winter Soldier (even if the rabbit does seem a smidge too fond of the Statue of Liberty).

( _“_ I think it’s best you sit this one out,” Pepper says gently, when Bucky makes to follow Steve and the others down to the briefing room. “ _The man who shot Thumper on live TV_ isn’t really how we want the public to think of you.”

“I wouldn’t _kill_ it,” Bucky argues, because he’s trying to be strictly non-lethal these days, even when he’s going up against Hydra scumbags. Pepper just gives him a look best described as _you know that’s not the point_ and Bucky decides maybe it’s better to stay home after all.)

The twins like to be linked into the team’s comms when they’re in the field, and to watch news footage from whichever network are irresponsible enough to be sending reporters into an obviously dangerous area. Bucky’s working on handling it, just like he's working on not trying to throttle Pietro when Wanda sends him to check up on Bucky when he gives in to his overwhelming need to hide out on the roof rather than risk hearing Steve get hurt.

Missions like this, though, where Bucky’s home because he’s not needed rather than because he’s not sure he can go along without completely losing his mind (again), he tries to stick it out, and in this case Bucky is so damn glad he does.

There’s a roof over his head, a beer in his hand, and a middle-aged newscaster is trying to provide commentary on the Avengers’ outing without mentioning the sixty foot rabbit that seems to want nothing more than to mount Lady Liberty.

It's a hell of a time to be alive.

“And you’re _sure_ we can't just kill it?” Stark says over the comms, while the stupidly huge TV screen shows a red and gold figure buzzing around the rabbit’s head, tugging on its ears each time it looks like the thing is getting bored with him.

“You're on TV, Tony,” Pepper says, pinching the bridge of her nose between her left thumb and index finger; there's clearly a delay on the footage, because a few seconds into her next sentence Iron Man turns from the creature to blow a kiss at the closest camera. “We try not to kill fluffy creatures when we’re on TV, remember?”

“But just think how many meals we could get out of it if we did,” argues Barton.

Natasha laughs. “I don’t know about you guys,” she says lightly, “But I have no desire to spend the rest of my life eating rabbit stew.”

Bucky hears a rumble of thunder over the comms, closely followed by a bolt of lightning striking the ground only a couple of feet from the rabbit’s nose. “That would not be wise,” Thor says. “The flesh of the dristopaf is poisonous to all species in the known universe.”

“ _Definitely_ not eating rabbit stew,” Natasha replies, while the redheaded figure on the screen throws herself into the fight with greater vigour.

Eventually, the team manage to annoy the creature into moving far enough from civilians and/or national landmarks for Thor’s buddy to send it back to its home planet (or maybe disintegrate it with a giant rainbow laser, Bucky had a brief absent moment so he’s not overly sure what happened there), and they return to the Tower with a remarkable amount of pink fluff but no significant injuries.

And If Pietro has taken it upon himself to order one of every rabbit-based dish available in the five boroughs, well, Bucky’s eaten way worse than the odd bunny in his lifetime; Stark isn’t amused, but everyone else is either too polite not to eat it (Sam and Pepper) or too aware of what it’s like to go hungry to let perfectly good food go to waste (everyone else).

Tonight is apparently Bruce’s turn to pick a movie, and he tends towards maudlin foreign films that never seem to have a plot beyond character A longing futilely for character B. Since Bucky has more than a decade of futile longing under his belt, watching it on the silver screen just doesn't do it for him, so he uses his _I’ve spent enough time around people today_ get out of jail free card to escape down to the range.

It’s quiet down there, just Bucky and his guns, him against whatever scenario JARVIS decides to throw at him next, and time sort of gets away from him; before Bucky knows it, the last virtual robot (Bucky prefers not to have human targets these days, even just simulated ones, and it’s not like the possibility of fighting robots is an outlandish one, even if it hasn’t happened to them yet) is fizzling into nothing as JARVIS says, “My apologies, Sergeant Barnes, but you have now been here for two hours.”

The words take a moment to make it through the calm blankness of Bucky’s mission-brain (refined by his years as the Soldier, maybe, but the single-minded focus on achieving his objective belongs to the WWII sniper too), but they do, and Bucky knows without trying that there’s no point in arguing; when JARVIS says time is up, time is _up_. Besides, Bucky’s the one who set the two hour limit on his range time (and the rule about him eating three meals a day, the requirement to speak to an actual human being at least once every twenty-four hours, and all the other things JARVIS reminds him about on a semi-regular basis) so he saves arguing for when he’s having the absolute worst of days.

“Thanks, JARVIS,” Bucky says, returning all his assortment of training weapons to their places around the room.

“You are most welcome, Sergeant Barnes,” JARVIS answers, waiting until Bucky’s finished tidying up and is in the elevator mentally debating which button to press before he speaks up again. “It may assist you in making your decision to know that Captain Rogers has returned to your floor.”

That’s all he says, and almost anyone else would use tone to suggest which decision they wanted him to make, but JARVIS is just JARVIS about it, no indication of whether he thinks Bucky should go to his floor or the communal floor or his hideaway on the roof. On a bad day, when Bucky is overwhelmed by options and just wants someone to _tell_ him what to do so he can stop worrying about getting it right, he hates how unbiased JARVIS is for anything not relating to someone’s safety; better days, today included, Bucky appreciates having the information necessary to make an informed choice without also being swayed by his conversational partner’s opinions.

He wouldn't be headed back to the team’s floor, even if Steve was still up there, but knowing Steve's back in their shared space rules out going anywhere else as well.

Steve's in their living room when Bucky gets there, curled up on the couch with a blanket over his knees. There's a tower of leftovers on the table, almost high enough to obscure his view of the television, and he's picking casually at a plate of food balanced in his lap.

“Plate on the table if you're hungry, Buck,” he says, pulling the blanket back from the other half of the couch so that Bucky can sit without worrying about his legs getting tangled up if he has to be on his feet quickly.

Bucky smiles, doesn’t entirely have the words for how much just a simple thing like that means to him. “Back in a minute,” he says instead, slipping back into the entrance hall without waiting for a response.

He makes quick work of rigging traps around the door to their apartment, not for any specific reason beyond the fact that he manages to get a little closer to relaxed when he knows the first person trying to break in will get sliced up by the wire he’s strung over the doorway, the second will be gutshot, the third hamstrung, and by that time Bucky will be there ready to take out anyone else personally. He doesn’t let himself set the traps all the time, only when he’s having the worst of days or he wants to let his guard down for an hour or so, and when he does it’s not always the same defences, not always the same order; Bucky has enough memories of stalking targets through their daily routines to know that being predictable is the surest way to get killed. 

Apartment secured (not that it wasn’t pretty much secure already, because JARVIS is the closest thing to a flawless defence system Bucky’s ever seen), Bucky collects a couple of beers from the fridge and heads back to the living room.

Steve knows what he’s been doing, always does, but he just looks at Bucky over the back of the sofa, a dumb, indulgent smile on his face, and says, “JARVIS, can you warn any friendlies who come visiting to knock rather than open the door?”

“Certainly, Captain Rogers,” JARVIS replies, as he does every time Steve makes a request like this.

Bucky drops onto the other end of the couch, his feet firmly planted on the floor, flipping the tops off both beers before passing one to Steve.

“Thanks, Buck,” Steve answers, clinking the neck of his bottle against Bucky’s.

They don't talk much, at least not beyond asking for one box or another, neither of them really paying much attention to whatever dumb show is playing on the stupidly huge television Stark thinks they need.

It's nice. Not exactly exciting, but Bucky's actually pretend fond of unexciting these days.

They finish eating, empty plates, empty bottles and almost entirely empty takeout containers on the table, and Steve leans across the gap between them, bumping their shoulders together, gentle and affectionate. The way they were before, a gesture like that would have been followed by one of them putting his arm around the other’s shoulders, but more often these days it’s barely a couple of seconds before Steve moves away again; today isn’t any different, Steve starting to pull away precisely three seconds after leaning in.

Today _is_ different, because Bucky is calm and comfortable, has had a relatively easy day, and he doesn’t _want_ Steve to move away.

He reaches out, telegraphing his intentions just as clearly as Steve does whenever he makes contact, and wraps his fingers around Steve’s wrist.

“Stay,” he says, pulling him back in again.

Bucky is anticipating some level of resistance, and has gauged his strength with that in mind, putting in just enough force that Steve should end up back against his shoulder again. What he's not expecting is the way Steve relaxes, making no effort at all to stay on his side of the couch, and what should have had Steve’s head resting gently on Bucky’s shoulder actually has him moving much further, tipping all the way over until his head and shoulders are in Bucky’s lap.

“Shit,” Steve says, while Bucky is still working through his surprise. “I’m sorry, Bucky.”

He’s moving, and Bucky struggles with the two halves of his mind. One is flinching, cringing, Steve’s weight on his legs too much like the restraints they used to use, before they succeeded in shocking all the resistance out of the Soldier, leaving him docile, obedient, _broken_. That half of him hates being pinned, being _touched_ too long, and the fact that Steve is already halfway out of his lap shows that he knows that, that he thinks that’s the part of Bucky’s brain that controls things.

But the other half is thinking _Steve_ , and some of that is the Steve before, his little Steve, and the way he used to shrink into himself when he was sick like he was trying to make himself even smaller than he already was. It’s the way Bucky would pull that version of Steve into him, huddle close whenever possible, share as much warmth as he had to offer, and it’s the night after Sarah Rogers’ funeral, when Steve didn’t sleep so Bucky didn’t either, awake and entirely unhelpful, unable to say or do anything to make it better beyond hold Steve as he grieved.

It’s after that, Steve hauling him off Zola’s table and just about carrying him out of there, Steve repeating as often as Bucky needed to hear it that they were on their way back to base, that he was free and Steve was healthy and they were together. Steve shaking him out of his nightmares, Steve telling him what was real and what was his fevered imagination, Steve never pushing Bucky to tell him anything more than he volunteered.

And it’s now, the way Steve treats him like he’s still human, still good, capable not only of making his own decisions but of making the _right_ decision, even if it’s only right for himself. Steve never asking more than Bucky’s willing to give, only that he be safe and healthy and here, if here is where he wants to be.

If it was anyone else then, yeah, Bucky would be reacting exactly the way Steve clearly expects him to, but it isn’t just anyone.

It’s Steve.

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, putting a hand on Steve’s shoulder to keep him from moving away. “I’m okay.”

Steve looks up at him, frowning just a little bit, and Bucky rushes to add, “If you’re okay, I mean.”

Steve blinks just the once, long and slow, and the edge of his mouth tips up into a smile. “I am more than okay, Buck,” he says, reaching up to squeeze the hand Bucky still has on his shoulder, then turns his head to face the television again.

Bucky works on relaxing, putting actual effort into it the way he often has to do these days. It’s not easy, never is, but he’s surprised to realise that, even with Steve’s weight pinning his legs, it’s not really any harder than normal.

It’s actually kind of nice, once he gets used to it. Steve is here, not looking at him or touching him but here all the same, and it's… Well, whatever it is, Bucky doesn't want it to stop.

Steve shifts a little, his hair brushing softly against Bucky’s hand, and it's only now that he realises his hand is even there, that he's been threading his fingers through Steve’s hair for the last who knows how long.

Only Steve, that's who, and this is utterly, painfully awkward, enough so that Bucky freezes, all that hard work he put into relaxing completely wasted. 

Steve doesn't say anything, doesn't move, reacting to Bucky’s sudden stillness the same way he did the hair stroking, which is to say he doesn't react at all: doesn't move, doesn't make a sound, doesn't even breathe differently.

Bucky knows he's just pretending – no one’s that oblivious, and Steve definitely isn't – but it's sort of calming anyway; he feels his heart rate slowing, the little hitch in his breathing smoothing out, and Bucky thinks maybe it's okay. If Steve was uncomfortable with it, if it was as weird as Bucky is worrying it is, he'd have said so, or just silently retreated back to his end of the couch if he decided it wasn't something he wanted to talk about.

If it was a problem, Steve would have made sure he knew.

Slowly, and very, very cautiously, Bucky moves his hand, slipping his fingers through Steve’s hair. It’s soft, not quite fluffy, and Bucky is glad that even in his inattentive state he didn’t use his metal hand – he always winds up losing at least a few strands when he washes his own hair, and he doesn’t think tearing out Steve’s hair is quite how he wants to do this. Not, of course, that Bucky knows what this is, but the wish not to hurt Steve is pretty much constant.

Steve makes a soft, small, pleased sort of noise, and Bucky repeats his action, stroking Steve’s hair again and again, as carefully as he can.

Bucky doesn't _ever_ want to stop.

Steve reaches up, placing his hand over Bucky’s metal one where it rests on his shoulder, lacing his fingers between Bucky’s. His thumb traces up and down the side of Bucky’s hand, too gentle for him to feel it, but he can see the movement out the corner of his eye well enough to copy it, and Steve makes that little contented sound again.

And, sure, they’re not doing anything particularly intimate by today’s standards; hell, even by the standards of their time, it’d hardly be a thrilling encounter. That doesn’t mean it’s not good, comfortable, and maybe Bucky’s heart is beating a little quicker than normal, maybe there’s something a little bit fluttery in his stomach, but it’s not panic, not fear, not even anxiety.

It’s just Steve.

Bucky looks down at him, tracing Steve’s profile with his gaze. Light from the television plays across his face, casting him in shades of blue, bright and dark and bright again, and Bucky didn't have Steve's skill with a paintbrush even before the fall cost him his dominant hand but, oh, if he did…

He doesn’t entirely intend to follow his gaze with his fingertips, but then his thumb brushes against the top of Steve’s ear and it's so easy to continue from there. His fingers catalogue the soft skin along the curve of his ear, rasp over the lightly bristled line of his jaw. His cheekbone is smooth and even, no dips or ridges to remind Bucky of their fight on the helicarrier, not that Bucky’s ever likely to forget it, but he's got a bump on his nose, a souvenir of a badly set break from before the serum.

Bucky runs his thumb the wrong way over Steve’s eyebrow, then smooths it back into place again, and Steve closes his eyes, doesn't move a muscle when Bucky takes it as permission to touch his eyelids as well.

Steve smiles, and then Bucky's fingertips are mapping out that as well.

 _Don’t quit asking_ , he’d said the first time, and Steve hasn’t. He doesn’t ask often, and his requests don’t follow any pattern or prompt that Bucky can detect, but he keeps asking, always so painfully sweet, a little cautious every time.

Bucky hasn’t said yes yet, but he’s no longer quite so anxious about refusing. He still feels his lungs seize in the seconds after, feels his palm sweat and his heart kick into overdrive, but it doesn’t last as long, doesn’t have him cringing away from Steve the way he did the first time.

He's not said yes, but he’s thought about it, wondered what it'd be like if he gave permission. He’s pictured it, Steve’s lips against his, the way the old Bucky used to picture it. Or, not exactly the same way – he can halfway remember the old Bucky’s imagination being a whole lot more vivid and running a hell of a lot further than kissing – but he’s tried to imagine it, the pressure, the temperature, the feeling.

He hasn't said yes, not yet, but it- It's not entirely because he hasn't _wanted_ to.

It's complicated.

If Bucky says no, he's in control. Steve asks, Bucky refuses, and Steve takes a step back (not necessarily literally, perhaps, but always metaphorically). They both know what happens next, and Bucky doesn’t have any doubt that Steve will accept his decision. His choices matter, his consent matters, and as long as Bucky withholds it, events play out in a way he can understand.

Once he says yes, things change.

Once he says yes, Steve will kiss him, and it could go any of the ways Bucky’s imagined or it could go none of them. It might just be Steve’s lips on his, or it might be open mouths and tongues and teeth. Might be swift and fleeting, might be sweet and slow or hot and heavy. Steve might touch his hair or face or neck, might put his hands on Bucky’s waist or hips or back. He might touch Bucky anywhere, and Bucky might like it, might want it, might happily return Steve’s touches or even instigate them. He might want more than just a kiss, might forget himself, might cross the line between what he can be okay with and what he can't, might not even realise it until it's too late and his body is reacting violently while his mind locks itself away in the quiet place.

Objectively speaking, Bucky knows that yes only means yes once, only counts in the moment he says it and that he can still say no at any point after that. He can say stop and Steve will stop, immediately and without question. What Bucky wants and doesn't want _matters_ , and he knows Steve will always respect that.

He knows he can say no, say stop. He doesn't know if he'll want to.

Bucky doesn't know what will happen once he says yes, and he wants to, he _wants_ to, but nothing scares him as much as the possibility of losing all his hard won self-control.

His thumb is still brushing across Steve's bottom lip, over and over, and the only way Bucky can think of to keep his control is to stop waiting for Steve to ask him.

“Steve,” he says, barely more than a whisper, but then with Steve's hearing he'd still catch it if it was an awful lot less.

Bucky feels Steve's lips tilt up into a smile, his head and shoulders shifting in Bucky’s lap until he's looking up at him. “Bucky,” he answers, fingers squeezing ever so gently around Bucky’s metal ones, their still linked hands now resting on his chest.

“Steve,” he starts. Stops. Clears his throat and tries again. “Steve, can-”

His effort to speak clearly is completely wasted, because Steve interrupts before he gets halfway through.

“Yes.”

“You don't know what I'm asking yet, pal,” Bucky points out, not entirely happy at being cut off.

“Doesn't matter, Buck. Answer’s always…” He trails off, and although Bucky doesn’t think Steve understands why it’s important he gets to ask the question, he does at least seem to get that it _is_ important. “Okay,” Steve says. “Sorry, please finish your question.”

“Maybe I don’t want to, now,” Bucky grumbles under his breath. He does, of course, but it’s an awful lot harder to ask when Steve is gazing up at him all earnest and encouraging.

Still, that’s solved easily enough, if Steve’s amenable to it. “Would you close your eyes, if…”

Apparently, Steve meant it when he’d started to say the answer was always yes, because his eyes are closed before Bucky can finish asking him if he’d be willing to do so.

“You can cover them, if it helps,” Steve offers casually, as though essentially blindfolding himself just to make Bucky feel better is a perfectly reasonable thing to do, rather than a demonstration of an absurd level of trust.

And, although the idea is equal parts comforting and terrifying, it’s a level of trust that Bucky should probably return. “No,” he says, and then, because it’s important to be polite when one is about to ask permission to kiss someone, “Thank you.”

Then, after a deep and not particularly grounding breath, “Can I kiss you, Steve?”

It comes out uneven, rushed, the words tangling themselves together into what may well be the least smooth request of its kind, but that doesn’t deter Steve from answering, “Yeah, Buck. I’d really like that.”

 _Okay_ , Bucky tells himself, holding a little tighter to Steve’s hand. He's managed to ask, and Steve’s given him the okay. Now he just has to follow through.

Even with the television on, it feels quiet, so quiet, and Bucky’s hand slipped from Steve’s face to his neck when he turned to look up at him, his fingertips now resting over Steve’s pulse, and it’s reassuring how it's just a little more rapid than normal.

He might do a good job of looking calm, but Steve’s heart rate proves Bucky isn't the only one feeling nervous.

“Sit up a bit, then?” he suggests, because although sitting here with Steve’s head and shoulders in his lap is more comfortable than he might have anticipated it being, leaning down to kiss him like this won’t be.

Steve does, using their joined hands to pull himself up and out of Bucky’s lap, his eyes still closed. He winds up sitting the wrong way around, facing the back of the sofa, facing Bucky, not so close that Bucky feels crowded but well within reach.

“Better?” Steve asks.

Bucky raises his right hand to Steve’s face again, not exploring this time, just resting there. “Better,” he agrees, almost without sound.

Steve's fingers squeeze Bucky’s metal ones, reassuringly solid, reassuringly _Steve_.

 _Okay_ , Bucky tells himself again, slowly leaning forwards, leaning in, until-

 _Oh_.

Kissing Steve is everything and nothing like he'd thought it would be.

It's not bad, either in terms of technique or of how Bucky feels about it. That's one of the things Bucky had imagined – that it might be terrible (Natasha warned him, a couple of months ago now, that Steve might be a little bit rusty, and then laughed like there’s a story there when Bucky pointed out that his experience wasn't any more recent) or that he might utterly detest it, might end up locking himself in the bathroom trying and trying to scrub the feel of it away – and he's very much glad that neither is the case. But, even though it's none of the awful things he thought it might be, it's not the mind-blowing, world-changing, life-altering event he'd pictured in some of his more romanticised imaginings.

There aren't fireworks. Bucky doesn't see sparks when he closes his eyes, or feel lightning rushing under his skin in the few places it touches Steve's. His blood doesn't catch fire in his veins, his heart doesn't try to pound its way out of his chest, and his absent libido doesn't take this moment to suddenly reassert itself. The world doesn't change, and kissing Steve doesn’t fill him with the same desperate, physical desire he knows he used to be capable of.

Kissing Steve doesn’t _fix_ him, and it’s only now that he’s sort of realising that’s what he’d been hoping for, that he’d actually thought it might.

If anything would, if anything _could_ fix him, it would be this, and the fact that it doesn't…

Maybe it’s proof that wanting to draw the line at kissing doesn’t mean he’s broken.

Maybe, Bucky lets himself consider for what is probably the first time, this isn’t something that needs fixing.

He draws back, just a little, tilting his head forwards until his forehead rests against Steve’s, trying to catch the breath he really shouldn’t have lost.

“Oh,” he manages, eventually, and it comes out as a feeble, relieved sort of sigh.

“Good _oh_?” Steve asks, not a whole lot louder, and he sounds equal parts hopeful and apprehensive.

One thing Bucky _hasn't_ imagined is that their first and second kisses might happen in such close succession, but Steve's so close and even the light, light brush of lips Bucky answers with has to be far more convincing than just saying yes.

Steve's smiling when Bucky draws back this time, but just in case the message hasn't sunk in Bucky says, “Good. Definitely good.”

“Good,” Steve echoes, pulling back the rest of the way. He releases Bucky’s hand exactly as long as it takes for him to settle back on his half of the sofa again, then takes it back again. “Good enough to do it again sometime?” he asks, still well below normal volume.

He's blushing – not the utterly mortified scarlet he can get sometimes, usually in response to Stark saying something even more inappropriate than normal, but it's still definitely a blush – and he's keeping his eyes down; Bucky finds it both absurd and sort of lovely that after asking permission more times than Bucky can recall, after they've finally actually kissed, he’s still shy about asking if they can do it again.

“Jesus,” Bucky replies, because he’s pretty sure he can feel his heart clenching in his chest, so full of love for Steve that it hurts, and if he doesn't make a joke of his answer he's going to cry. “You kiss a fella one time, and the first thing he does is demand you tell him when you're gonna do it again.”

Fortunately, Bucky’s got a much better grasp of tone than he did in the first couple of months after Steve brought him home, enough that Steve laughs, clearly realising that Bucky doesn't mean it.

“Jerk,” he says lightly, thumb tracing over the plates of Bucky’s knuckles. “I have no idea why I love you.”

“Me either,” Bucky agrees, leaning back into the cushions behind him. “Guess you’ll just have to settle for being happy I love you back.”

Steve smiles wider, more beautiful and more brilliant than Bucky could ever deserve, and looks at the television again.

X

“No,” Bucky says the following morning, when Steve looks up from his crossword and asks if they can kiss again.

“Not right now, I mean,” he amends immediately, because that seems like very important information to convey; at some point in the future, he would very much like to kiss Steve again, and that's definitely something he wants Steve to know.

“Okay,” Steve says lightly, smiling at him, then looks back down at the paper again. “Six across. Nine letters, _they dread order to lose water_. Any ideas?”

Bucky fixes his coffee and brings the pot over to the table to top up Steve’s, nudging the seat next to him a little closer before sitting down. “Nope,” he answers. “Ask me another.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr at [dreaminglypeach](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dreaminglypeach), where I will happily answer questions, attempt to write to prompts or whatever else it is people do on there...
> 
> (And yes, I did spend ages on a reverse crossword solver trying to find a clue to which that is the answer. One day I may write the story of how Tony semi-regularly steals their paper in order to amend the crossword to something he thinks is more appropriate to their situation. Pretty sure Clint helps him, while Natasha rolls her eyes and Bruce raises objections but occasionally helps Tony come up with clues and words anyway)


End file.
